


long walks and stardust

by EvaLark



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: College AU, Depression, F/M, One-Shot, Thanksgiving, cuteness, late night convos, title (in part) from a Mika song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27795730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvaLark/pseuds/EvaLark
Summary: A late night walk takes a different turn than expected. (A tall, masked, musically gifted turn, of course.)A Thanksgiving AU, sort of.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 19
Kudos: 35





	long walks and stardust

**Author's Note:**

> This is:
> 
> (1) an ode to all the long, lonely, tearful and introspective walks I took back on campus (oh, to be back on campus!), and - despite how much they did help me, heal me - how much I would’ve appreciated an Erik just about then (so this is pure wish gratification, really, but whatever)
> 
> (2) a nice little nod to Thanksgiving break as well as how thankful I am for everyone who’s ever taken the time to read my fics! 
> 
> (3) pure procrastination, because school is threatening to send me into a state of panic and the next Angels update may have to wait until the semester is over, in like two weeks, but my mind is like - YOU HAVE TO POST THIS RANDOM AU BEFORE DOING LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE. So here ya go.
> 
> Also! this is a bit of a different writing style than I’ve done before, so it’s unedited, and super clunky, and I severely dislike most of it - but I’d love any feedback, good or bad :]. Switching back to present tense writing after this lol

**Long Walks and Stardust**

She really ought to call them back.

But she couldn’t possibly, not right now - not with the residual hurt that still stewed within her, not with the lump in her throat that would certainly betray her before she could even get a full sentence out. It was hurt, hurt and simmering anger as well - anger at Aunt Val for her well-meaning but thoughtless words, anger at Uncle Roy for his veiled accusation that she’d been slacking off when she’d been trying so, so hard to stay on top of it all. To go to class and turn in assignments and not doze off from sheer exhaustion in rehearsals, when all the while everything was falling apart inside and every day was a battle against just letting go.

Depression; she’d never even considered it until these past few weeks. It was a foreign word, an ugly, well-worn label for a psychological condition that only _others_ ever suffered. She hadn’t become depressed even when her Papa died - it was grief, certainly, a harrowing, hopeless sorrow, the keen pain of forced separation and the loss of her lifelong best friend - but it was grief, not depression. She supposed that moving in with Aunt Val and Uncle Roy, going on near-daily excursions with Meg, had prevented her from falling into that deep, dark black hole that she’d always imagined depression to be.

But she had been wrong all along. Depression was not some morbid psychological condition that set one apart from others, like a cloak of hovering darkness and despair. It was, unfortunately, entirely internal. It was the way her classes and assignments had lost their meaning, the academic drive she’d once cherished dissipating into thin air. It was the way rehearsals had become a chore rather than a passion, her frustration from stumbling over the notes warring with the desire to simply walk away, return to her dorm room and sleep. It was the way her guts twisted and turned as she hopelessly overanalyzed every social interaction after the fact; it was the way she had begun waking up every morning wishing she hadn’t woken up at all.

It was the way she’d begun feeling utterly, irrevocably alone, even among her friends, even when it was just her and Raoul, dear sweet Raoul, the best boyfriend she could’ve ever asked for.

Well, ex-boyfriend, now.

In short, it was apparently all too possible to exist in the middle of a teeming college campus, physically surrounded with hordes of bright, friendly students, her friends just a text or a door away, and simply feel like the world had gotten a little bit _dimmer._

It was her breakup with Raoul three days ago that had motivated her call with Aunt Val; well, that and the upcoming five days off they got for Thanksgiving. Her aunt had some impression, of course, of the challenges she’d consistently faced during her year and a half in college so far. Despite her drive to learn, she simply wasn’t the smartest in any class, and all-nighters in the library had become a regular fixture in her schedule. The one thing she was good at had landed her in the best orchestra on campus, where long, grueling hours spent at rehearsal sapped away at energy and time - time, the most valuable commodity when one had to devote hours to understanding class material and completing assignments, or when one had a boyfriend and some semblance of a social life that she was obliged to maintain, academics be damned.

But her aunt and uncle couldn’t understand, she realized now. Not in the way she needed. Uncle Roy had suggested that she quit orchestra in favor of keeping up her grades, telling her that she just needed to figure out her priorities. Aunt Val had gone silent when she mentioned breaking up with Raoul, and then gently implied that it had been the wrong decision. 

“I don’t know why you’re pushing yourself so hard, dear,” she’d said, her voice soft and warm even over the cell phone connection. “We know you’re not going to go to grad school, or become a professional musician. Roy and I, we’ve never pushed you in any way. In the long run, you’re going to settle down and get married, raise a family, so why don’t you make it up with Raoul? He’s always cared for you so much, and you’ve been together for so long…”

Christine had stopped walking in her tracks, jaw agape, unbelieving, _furious._ “How dare you,” she’d hissed into the phone, drawing a queer look from a lone student walking past. “I can’t believe you’d pay for me to go to college, watch me work my ass off every single day, and then tell me I’ll just be a _housewife._ I have dreams, you know! This isn’t the 1950s!”

And then she’d hung up, and resumed walking at a frantic pace, shocked at her aunt’s callousness - _how dare she!_ \- yet tearing up, inexplicably, inexorably, as she wondered just what those dreams were and when exactly she’d lost sight of them, somewhere in the blur of college experiences and new friends and the sleep deprivation that had become the closest friend of all, her bosom companion.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy,” she’d told Raoul in the privacy of his dorm room, mere days ago. “I know you’ve wanted to spend more time together. But I’m losing my mind here. There are a million things going on, and I just… feel down all the time. I need to find myself again.”

She’d asked for time away, and Raoul had given it to her with an ease she was grateful for and a flippancy that made it clear he didn’t truly understand, not to the extent she craved. He seemed to believe that she was simply too busy, mentally frazzled by her demanding schedule and the rigor of her coursework, and that she’d return to him as soon as she regained her equilibrium. She didn’t tell him that she’d felt increasingly alienated by his cavalier attitude, the raucousness and popularity of his rich, frat-boy friends, the insecurity she’d always felt around him that was only heightened by her recent bout of overanalyzing everything that made her inferior. 

It was awful, feeling this way. Raoul was a good guy - she knew he cared for her, and she for him, and if it wasn’t for this breakup he would be accompanying her home for Aunt Val’s Thanksgiving dinner. Never mind that his family would be flying to the Bahamas for a week in their beach house. He always wanted to spend time with her, and she adored him for it.

And yet she had pushed him away.

She’d have to apologize to Aunt Val at some point; she really should call back. They still had yet to discuss the logistics of Christine getting home for Thanksgiving, now sans Raoul because no chance she would be taking Aunt Val’s advice. Break was a mere week away, and she very well couldn’t _not_ talk to her aunt and uncle until she was greeting them in person at the station. 

But she felt so _lost_ , and she was crying now in earnest, wandering down the street, bracing against the bitter cold. She’d left the dorm without her winter coat that afternoon, trusting the sun to quell the nip of the mid November chill… but it was almost midnight now and the near-freezing temperature was sinking into her bones, cooling the hot tears trailing down her cheeks.

It was hitting her all at once, and she was a blubbering wreck, and for some reason all she could think about now was Meg’s comment, several weeks ago, that she’d never seen Christine cry.

“Look at me, I’m a mess,” Meg had chuckled through her tears as she’d curled up on the lone couch in their common room, tissue box on one side and an illegally large bag of Swedish fish on the other. Christine knew her friend all too well and when Meg had returned to the suite, distraught over being rejected by the boy she’d been hooking up with and accidentally caught feelings for, Christine had hugged her and then promptly retrieved the stash of candy they kept around for such occasions.

“You’re not a mess,” Christine had responded, resolute. “If you look like one right now, it’s because that asshole led you on and then treated you horribly. He doesn’t deserve you, Meg, and I’ll beat him up for you if you’d like.”

A shaky laugh, and then Meg had leaned her head on Christine’s shoulder. “Nah, I’m good. I’ll be alright. Thank you, Chris. Honestly, it’s high time you cried on my shoulder for a change.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Mm… like that’s gonna happen. You’re so much more stable than me. I’ve never seen you cry before, you know that? You’re very put-together.”

“That’s because no one’s ever there to see,” were the words Christine had left unsaid.

And it was true, to a certain extent. She certainly never cried in front of other people, not even Aunt Val or Uncle Roy, but she also hadn’t ever broken down quite like this before. She hadn’t let herself feel this way in ages - frustrated and sad and angry all at once, loathing Aunt Val for her inadvertently discouraging words, yet loathing herself for being on edge and upset to begin with. For hanging up when her aunt had never been anything but well-intentioned; for feeling sad and lonely even when she knew in the back of her mind that her friends - that Meg, dear Meg, would do anything to comfort her. For breaking up with Raoul when they had been dating for so long, had experienced so much of college together. The past few months had become a bleak daze in which she’d managed to keep herself going to class, going to rehearsal, saying hello to friends she passed on the street, greeting Meg with a smile on her face. Perhaps it was necessary to shut some parts of oneself down in order to keep functioning at a relatively high level - God knew her workload demanded it.

But now, nothing was shut down - everything was on, the floodgates flung open, her emotions in disarray - and so she walked and walked and walked, until the upper bounds of campus, with its quad of student dorms, had given way to the main thoroughfare running to the north and residential buildings interspersed with stores and restaurants. The only establishments that were open were the bars and that one late-night coffee shop on the corner. It was the weekend, after all.

Any other Friday night, and Christine might’ve found herself sequestered in a study nook in her dormitory, catching up on classwork. Or she might’ve been one of _them,_ one of the dressed-up college students now littering the path around her, tipsy enough for a banging night out after a week of insipid lectures and responsibilities. Freshman year, she’d frequented these very bars with Raoul and his buddies, one and all flashing their fake IDs with giddy impunity; now, she wandered numbly among them, unable to bring herself to care about the way some eyed her curiously or the way most ignored her as if she were a ghost. 

Or at least, she didn’t care until someone walked right smack bam into her, sending her toppling to the pavement.

The cold concrete stung her bare hands; she looked up, dazed, to see the culprit sauntering away, a guy in a brown sheepskin bomber jacket chattering away with three girls in skirts so short she could practically see their panties from her ungraceful position on the ground. They were laughing; not one of them had spared her a glance. 

Christine clambered to her feet and ran.

Backpack bouncing up and down, slamming into her with every breath, cold air searing her lungs - she ran further up the street, away from the bars and the people and the crowd she didn’t belong to, not anymore, not with the tears in her eyes or her ratty black sweater and jeans, not with the black void inside that she couldn’t get out no matter how she tried. 

She sobbed. What was _wrong_ with her?

Somehow, she didn’t see the guy she was running into until he was catching her, large hands landing around her upper arms to halt her disastrous, tear-fueled trajectory. 

“Oh! -”

The shock of it was immediately speared through with another rush of humiliation, hot and shameful. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she muttered, shrinking back, moving to sidestep the unfortunate stranger before looking up.

Mismatched eyes stared back down at her, and she stopped in her tracks.

Blue and pale yellow, illuminated in the wan light of the streetlamp behind her - she’d never seen such unique eyes, and she watched as the expression in them morphed from disdain into bewildered concern. 

The guy took a step back, and she realized with a start that he practically towered over her. “Are you alright?” he asked, slipping a pair of bulky black headphones down to let them rest around his neck.

“I’m good,” Christine said, sniffling furiously, mind whirling at the surprise that was his pleasantly sonorous voice. “I - I’m sorry, about running into you. Excuse me.”

But he didn’t move from her path. “I said, are you alright? You're crying.”

His voice now emanated a careful sympathy, and it caught her off guard, and she was just now realizing that half of his face wasn’t skin but a mask of some sort, something skin-toned but with a clear cutout for his eye, the edge of it visible down the middle of his nose and above the right side of his upper lip. It looked like a cross between a prosthetic and a stage mask, clearly defined edges but inconspicuous overall, and she quickly looked away when it registered that she was being downright rude.

Then she realized what he’d said, and her face burned.

“Oh God, I’m crying,” she stammered, a hand flying up to rub at her wet eyes. “And I’m still crying, and you’re still here, and for some godforsaken reason I’m still _talking_. You probably think I’m insane. I’m so sorry. It’s just - it’s been a rough night.”

“I gathered.”

"I - I'll be going now."

A hand on her shoulder, effectively stopping her in place. "Wait. Where are you heading?"

She took him in, long black winter coat layered over an equally black hoodie (with the hood up) and jeans, backpack straps visible on his shoulders; it wasn’t so dissimilar to her own drab attire. "I - I live in West Hall, by the river. I guess I’m heading back." She hadn't been planning to, of course, hadn’t been thinking at all - but it was late and she had better things to do than walk around crying in the dark, way up on the north side of campus, all alone.

His brow wrinkled as he released her shoulder, the mask shifting with it.

"That's almost two miles from here. Here, uh, I'll walk you there."

She stared at him, taken aback as a remnant tear slipped out to roll down her cheek; she swiped at it, sniffling. "No. I mean, no no no, that's crazy, I couldn't ask you to do that. Not to imply that _you're_ crazy, I think you're very nice, but I couldn't impose."

"Not an imposition at all. I have the feeling you could use some company right now, even as inferior as mine."

"You're too kind," but she didn't protest further as she turned around and they began walking, side by side, back down the sidewalk she'd just traversed in a teary daze; “Are you a student here?”

“Yes. You are too, I assume?”

“Yeah. Sophomore. My name’s Christine, by the way. Should’ve probably done that a bit earlier, heh.”

He quirked a smile, crooked. “Erik. Junior. Nice to meet you, Christine.”

A huff. “I basically crashed into you while bawling my eyes out, so that's doubtful. But thank you anyway.”

“It wasn’t so bad. Hey, it's really not my place to ask, but is there something going on?”

She would've denied it, she would; she hadn't even confided in Meg about this, any of it, but something about his voice invited her to speak - to confide in this stranger turned walking companion turned impromptu sounding board. 

She stole a glance; he’d placed himself between her and the street, so that it was his unmasked side that faced her. Perhaps it would help; perhaps not, but even so, Christine found herself talking anyway.

"I broke up with my boyfriend a few days ago," she admitted. "And I just yelled at my aunt over the phone. I've been a wreck this semester, I’ve been falling asleep in rehearsal, and I - I think I may be depressed."

There. She'd finally said it, out loud, and now she awaited judgement from an absurdly tall junior boy with a mask and mismatched eyes. She stole a glance, only to find him looking at her with an inscrutable expression on the visible half of his face; she quickly averted her gaze, and then proceeded to shiver violently.

His eyes narrowed, and then he was slinging his backpack onto the ground and shrugging out of his coat. "Here," he said, holding it out as she started shaking her head. "C'mon, it's freezing out. You can't walk around here without a jacket."

"Neither can you," she retorted, noting how slender he was, now that she could see the black sweater fitted snugly to his frame. Erik simply held the coat out, adamant.

"I can deal with it better than you. Please, Christine."

He was already moving to drape it over her shoulders, over backpack and all, when she relented. Putting the coat on properly, she was instantly grateful; it swamped her hands and fell down to her knees, but it was thick and warm, and smelled somewhat pleasant besides.

It must smell like Erik, she realized belatedly, and she flushed at the thought.

"Now," Erik said, after accepting her effusive thanks with a somewhat awkward grace. "I'm no psychiatrist, but I'm happy to listen, if you need an ear. I’ve certainly been to enough of them to know how to play the part, I think.”

Christine bit her lip; her tears had mostly dried, and with their dissipation came the dull throb of post-cry introspection. Her face felt numb, only in part from the cold.

“I guess I’m just burnt out,” she finally murmured, slow and thoughtful. “This entire semester in particular has been off. I’ve felt… honestly, it feels a bit like I'm running on a hamster wheel as fast as I can, with all these tasks and lists and commitments and even social interactions, and if I stop for too long I'll fall off and fall apart. And I won't be able to pick myself up again. And… it seems I’ve figured out that it's possible to actually be really sad and alone inside, watching the world go by through shadowed glasses, and still - keep - _running._ ”

She didn’t dare look at the guy next to her; a moment passed in silence and Christine laughed, a little mortified. “I’m sorry, you must think I’m so pathetic.”

“You’re anything but,” he said, and she smiled up at him gratefully. 

The wind suddenly whipped up and she pulled his coat closer to her body, about to apologize for wearing it in the first place, but Erik was speaking just as she opened her mouth.

“I’ve been on that hamster wheel before,” he said simply. “Still feel like I am sometimes - it’s tough going. Forgive me for making an assumption, but I suppose the breakup had something to do with this?”

“Yeah.” She looked down. “He’s a good guy, he just... I can’t bring myself to bother him with it, not when he’s such a chill person and thinks college is a breeze. It is for him, you know. His family… well, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about all that. And here I am bothering you with it instead. I’m sorry.”

And then Erik was chuckling, a low, rich sound that shot straight to her core. “That’s about the fourth time you’ve apologized to me for absolutely nothing. No more of _that_ , understood?”

Surprised, she murmured her assent, feeling warm all over - and not just from the coat. “Thank you,” she added, and on a whim reached over to squeeze his hand gratefully; he seemed to startle, but then his hand was gripping hers lightly in response before falling away.

Noise and yellow light had gradually intruded upon their conversation; they'd come upon the strip of bars, and she noticed how Erik suddenly stiffened at her side.

“I hate this crowd,” he said, and she looked up to find him casting disdainful looks at the people around them now, walking in and out of bars or standing around in little clusters on the sidewalk, boisterous and well-dressed and _happy_. “Can’t stand them. I generally avoid this street on weekends.”

Suddenly, she felt awfully guilty. She didn’t know anything about him, and of course, with that mask… “You don’t have to walk with me, really. I’m sorry I’m putting you out of your way.”

"What’d I just tell you? Don't worry about it," he replied. Something in his voice pained her, yet told her that she had better not inquire, and simply accept it. 

So she did. "I think I know what you mean. I see everyone having fun on the weekends, these days, and I just feel like I’m walking in a bubble.” Watching a group of girls sway down the sidewalk ahead of them, she was hit with a sudden burst of what felt like clarity. “Sometimes, you know, I feel like I'm a million different people interacting with a million other people, in a million different contexts. And they're all genuine, as far as I can tell, all these different versions of myself. But at the end of the day, I don't know who I am when I'm alone. I don’t know if that makes any sense.” 

"It does," Erik said, and reached up to tap on his mask. "I let this define me for most of my life. It was always about what everyone else expected me to be, how everyone else expected me to act with this mask on my face. In the hospital or in school or even walking down the street. Before long, it consumed me.” He glanced down at her and then looked away, stoic. “I had to properly learn how to be alone at all.” 

He trailed off, thumbs hooking into the pockets of his skinny jeans, and they walked in silence for a while, eventually leaving the hubbub of the bar strip far behind them. Something inside Christine had slowly settled along the way, drifting into a semblance of peace, knowing there was someone out there who did understand her, even just a little bit; and for now, it felt like enough.

It wasn’t long before she wanted to know more, though. "So, Erik, what do you study?"

A wry chuckle from him, and she found herself grinning in response; they were indeed doing this now, the typical college intro as if they had just met and she hadn’t already fully embarrassed herself in front of him multiple times over. "I'm double majoring in computer science and music. You?"

"Economics." She offered a small, self-deprecating laugh. "It's much less interesting than comp sci and music. Honestly, I sometimes wish I majored in music instead."

"I suppose now's not the time to mention the architecture minor," Erik said. She shot him a look, duly impressed. "But why aren’t you studying music? It’s quite a good department here, even if they're sometimes horrendously old-fashioned."

The way he said it was just too good, dry and haughty and genuinely frustrated all at once, and she found herself laughing outright. "Oh, so you're Mister Progressive, huh? What is it? Minimalism or post-tonal theory?"

"Neither," and for the space of one beautiful second, he beamed at her, lips curving under the edge of the mask. "Call it my own thing. It’s hard to properly describe. If I had to, I’d say it’s almost like EDM with a classical influence. But you didn’t answer the question, Christine.”

She shrugged. “Econ seemed like the more viable option. I know I won’t ever become a professional musician, and my uncle always talked business at the dinner table, so I guess I got interested.”

“Fair enough. But what do you play?”

“The violin. A bit of piano, too, though I’m not nearly as good at that. But, hey, back to you! Classical EDM, huh? I’ve got to hear what that sounds like.”

“It’s sort of got some 80s to it as well, I’d say. It’s pretty experimental,” Erik admitted. “Most of my professors think it’s a complete sacrilege, but my independent study advisor says it’s cool, so that’s good enough for me.”

“Is that what you were listening to when I bumped into you, way back when?”

“Oh, this? No, this is someone else’s music. 80s-reminiscent, admittedly, but not mine.” He pulled his hood back, removed the headphones from around his neck and, without further ado, plopped them onto Christine’s head, fiddling with something to increase the volume. “Here, take a listen.”

It was _very_ 80s - frenetic and upbeat and yet melancholy too, eclectic, addictively catchy; the artist had a beautifully wide vocal range and, despite some of the lyrics reminding her of Raoul, she found herself enjoying it immensely. Three songs slipped by as they walked past classroom buildings and campus libraries - two songs were from the same artist but the third sounded more modern, surreal, delightfully alternative, and it was with some reluctance that Christine finally relinquished the headphones as the familiar notes of Coldplay’s “Yellow” came on. “I liked that,” she grinned.

Erik looked pleased, running a hand through the tousle of wavy black hair he’d exposed upon slipping the hood down. “What songs did you listen to?”

“Uh, quite a few… one of them repeated ‘rain’ in the chorus?”

“Ah, that.” 

He burst into song without warning, lilting notes sung in almost-flawless imitation of the original artist’s countertenor - and Christine was still gawking at him when he ended after a single run-through of the chorus, only a few seconds later. “That one, correct?” he questioned.

He stopped walking a split second after she did, after she’d halted in her tracks in the middle of the empty sidewalk.

And then she found her voice. “Why the _hell_ aren’t you in any of the choruses, Erik? Or the acapella groups? I’ve never seen you perform, and I’ve been to basically _everything_.”

He smiled wanly but shook his head. “I don’t care for putting myself on display. Professors are one thing, but an auditorium of students… Plus, student orgs, leadership structures - it’s all politics, hierarchy. Even the creative groups. I don’t care for it. I’d much rather make music on my own… or hear my music performed. Did you, uh, did you happen to watch the winter musical last year?” 

Her jaw dropped. “Hold on, _you_ wrote _Don Juan Triumphant_ ? Oh my god, _you’re_ O.G.?” He nodded, and her hands flew up to cover her mouth. “Oh my _god!_ Everyone wondered who O.G. was for _ages_ , and Nate Khan - the director, though of course you know that - he wouldn’t give us _anything!”_

Erik smirked and gave her a little mock bow. “O.G. at your service. It was Nate’s idea, actually. He’s the one who talked me into submitting something for the musical, and I agreed to do it anonymously.”

“It was such a hit! Why in the world did you stay anonymous?”

He shrugged. “It was enough for me to see it put on stage. I didn’t care for the publicity.”

“That’s… fair, I guess.” 

“And you - you weren’t in it, were you? I think I would have remembered. But you know Nate well?”

“No, not really. My friend Meg, she was one of the dancers. She talked about Nate a lot.”

“Ah, I see. But you play the violin on campus, don’t you? Did you think about playing in the pit?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have done the pit. I would’ve preferred the chorus.”

“You _sing?_ ”

“I… uh, I do.” She hadn’t sung in months, if she was being honest with herself. Singing was a hobby that had fallen to the wayside, deprioritized, forgotten; it did not exist in her world of exhausted days and caffeine-driven nights and the black that had begun encroaching upon it all, that bleak apathy gnawing at her from the inside out. 

But she was with Erik now, and her primary concern - for once - wasn’t the fact that she hadn’t sung in ages, or that she’d been too depressed to do so. Rather, it was the fact that she was apparently walking next to an insanely talented singer, composer, and all-around fantastic musician, and suddenly she regretted saying anything at all. “I’m really awful,” she blurted out upon seeing the increasingly hopeful look on Erik’s face. “I haven’t sung anything in forever. You’d put your headphones back on and run away if you heard me.”

The corner of his lip quirked up. “Try me.”

“I can’t. You’re too good.”

“I promise not to judge. I’ll even lie.”

“Wow, comforting.”

Ultimately, she ended up giving in, humming and then softly singing one of the ballads from _Don Juan_ , or at least what she could remember of it. Her voice was husky from her earlier crying session as much as it was from disuse; vaguely, she wondered just how terrible she sounded even as she tried her best to dig the lyrics up from back storage memory.

When it ended, they simply kept walking, lapsing into silence. She’d all but accepted that she’d just butchered one of O.G.’s songs, in front of the man himself no less, when Erik finally spoke.

“Now, Christine, why the hell aren’t _you_ in any of the acapella groups or choirs?”

She inhaled, surprised. “Oh, I tried. I auditioned for all of them freshman fall, but none of them took me. I never auditioned again after that.”

Even with the mask concealing half his face, Erik managed to look highly offended. “Told you they’re worthless, all of them,” he joked, and then sounded more serious. “Their loss, truly. You have a lovely voice.”

“Actually, uh, I wasn’t going to mention this, but I auditioned for _Don Juan_ as well. Didn’t get a part.”

Erik actually rounded on her now, eyes wide. “What? Are you serious? Nate, that _idiot -_ I’m going to _kill_ him, the bastard - ”

“Hey hey,” she laughed, still fairly stunned that he’d think so highly of her voice. He, Erik, _O.G._ , who sang like an angel! “It was my own fault - I got stage fright and completely botched the audition. But I was happy for Meg, and then the show was just - _wow_. You’re incredible.”

"So are you," he said softly, and quiet seconds slipped by, their footfalls on the pavement providing a peaceful soundtrack to Christine’s thoughts. 

The angry hurt from earlier was long gone, shed slowly over the course of their walk up to the bars. In its place lingered an odd, foreign feeling of contentment, the uncharacteristic thrill of fresh banter, the inexplicable sense of freedom now lurking just around the corner. She hadn’t held a conversation quite this easily in months - free of obligation and expectation, free of the overanalysis and the apathy that had constantly warred in the forefront of her mind. Free of the insidious inferiority that had poisoned her relationship with Raoul. 

Talking to Erik was just… talking to Erik, and the sensation of all-too-welcome _peace_ that was seeping into her bones at the realization was far too lovely to ever willingly give up.

It was Erik who broke the silence as they neared the river a few minutes later, politely inquiring if Christine was looking forward to anything in particular, in what remained of the semester.

She huffed softly in response. “I was supposed to bring Raoul - that’s my boyfriend’s name - he was supposed to come home with me for Thanksgiving break. My aunt and uncle love him - our families have known each other for ages. That’s not happening anymore… But no, no big Thanksgiving plans or anything. You?"

“I see. I’m staying on campus,” Erik said. “I’ll probably try to get a head start on final projects. To be blunt, I’ve never had much cause to celebrate Thanksgiving.”

His words were indeed blunt, bitter and sardonic seemingly despite himself, and Christine’s heart sank. Here she had been lamenting her own sorry state all night when, for all she knew, Erik might not have a home or a family to spend Thanksgiving with at all. It certainly didn’t sound like he had it easy; she stole another peek at his profile, sharp jawline and high cheekbone, thin lips, an attractive enough face that would be mundane as well if not for the sliver of mask she could see running down forehead and nose, from her angle. He’d mentioned a hospital - a health condition, then? A deformity or scar? He’d also mentioned avoiding public performances… what kind of life had Erik led for him to eschew Thanksgiving altogether?

She nibbled on the inside of her lip; she wondered… 

They turned a corner, and her dormitory loomed large in front of them. 

“Well, this is me. Thank you so much for walking me back, Erik, really. Are you nearby?”

Erik rubbed at the corner of his jaw. “I live in the quad, actually. It’s not -”

“ _What?_ ” It was Christine’s turn to round on him, disbelieving. “Are you serious? We _started_ at the quad! Why would you walk me back to the river? That’s insane! _”_

“I was more than happy to do it,” he said awkwardly, and she stared at him, aghast. She knew full well that the shuttle didn't run after midnight, and to imagine Erik walking the two miles back, all by himself… 

"You can stay in my room," she said, and winced as Erik's mismatched eyes blew wide open. “I mean - I have a common room and a couch, and - just in case you don't want to walk all the way back at this time of night, you don't have to. That's all I meant. Free couch. I absolutely did _not_ mean that as a… come-on.”

By the time she'd finished talking, Erik seemed to have recovered from the shock of her invitation; he was rubbing the corner of his jaw, again, in what was apparently a nervous tic. “That’s very kind, Christine, thank you, but -”

He didn’t have time to finish before the front door of West Hall swung open, suddenly, releasing a small group of weekend revelers along with a burst of warm air, the faint reek of alcohol. Christine stepped aside to let them pass, Erik close behind - but then she caught sight of a familiar face, just as the person stopped to stare at her.

“Christine?”

“Hey, Raoul,” she said weakly, stunned, taking him in as he studied her in turn. She hadn’t seen him since their last conversation, and the content of her disastrous phone call with Aunt Val was suddenly shoving itself to the forefront of her mind, uncomfortable, unwanted; she could practically feel the sudden tension radiating from Erik next to her. She wanted nothing more than to get inside and away. “I was just - going in, I’ll see you around.”

But her boyfriend - _ex_ -boyfriend, or temporarily suspended boyfriend, or _whatever_ \- was staring at Erik now, a perfect eyebrow raised, as Erik shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Christine, who’s this?”

Christine blinked, frozen.

“A friend,” she blurted out as she mindlessly grabbed Erik’s hand. “He walked me back from the quad, is all. I'll text you before I leave for break, Raoul. Have a good night.”

She all but dragged Erik into the dorm and into the open elevator, and they stood in awkward silence as the doors slid closed, cutting Raoul and the others standing just outside off from view. She exhaled, unsteadily, and then looked up apologetically at a blank-faced Erik.

“I’m so sorry. I haven’t seen him since we… broke up, and I just. Panicked, I guess. I kinda dragged you in here, didn’t I?”

Erik tilted his head.

“I didn’t mind,” he responded, sounding oddly cheerful.

She couldn’t tell whether it was the strangely agreeable way he said it, or the flash in his eyes - blue and warm amber rather than yellow, now that she could see them properly - or the absurdity of the entire situation combined perhaps with Erik’s general presence, tall and dark and gangly in the small box of fluorescent-lit, familiar elevator space. Whatever it was, she emitted a single, high-pitched laugh, and then clapped a hand over her mouth.

When they emerged a minute later onto the third floor, both were still laughing.

“Well, this is me,” Christine managed through the last vestiges of breathless giggles. “The, uh, the offer still stands. It’s only fair, after you walked me all this way.”

Erik shook his head, still smiling. “I’ll be fine. It’s not that late, anyway.”

“It’s almost one.”

“I don’t sleep much.”

She eyed him, pulling out her door key. “It’s cold out.”

“Not _that_ cold.”

“Oh!” In an instant she was slipping out of his coat, shoving it into his hands. “Here you go, and thank you, Erik.” 

She hoped, desperately, that he knew it was for more than just the coat.

Erik took the coat, but didn’t put it on right away; instead, he draped it over one broad, sharp-angled shoulder, and extended a hand. “Your phone, Christine.”

Momentarily baffled, she looked from his hand to _him_. “What?”

A look of deep uncertainty quickly spread over Erik’s face, and he retracted his hand. Whether it was because of the light in the hallway or an as-of-yet unprecedented slip in his confidence, Christine realized that she hadn’t seen this look yet, hesitant and faltering and almost endearingly bashful.

Was it the remnants of winter cold, or was he _blushing?_

“I, ah… I thought I’d put my number in. In case you ever need someone to refer you for Nate’s next musical, or just - a listening ear,” he said, shyly, and she wanted to hug him and never let go.

She did not end up doing either. Instead, fifteen minutes later, clothes changed and face washed (God, what must he have thought of her? She’d looked _awful,_ red-faced and blotchy with the cold and all that horrible _crying_ ), she fired off a one-handed text as she brushed her teeth, Meg already asleep in the double they shared.

_hey Erik, it’s Christine. get back okay?_

It was after she’d already turned off the lights and settled into bed when her phone buzzed and lit up with a response.

_Christine, thank you - I just walked inside. How are you feeling? - E_

Her heart warmed at his query - and look, he apparently signed his texts. _E_. It was frankly adorable.

_I’m feeling much better. I can’t thank you enough for tonight, for the walk and the music and for listening to me babble. really, just… thank you_

_My pleasure, Christine. Honest. You can call me anytime_

The next text, immediate, was a link to a Spotify playlist titled “night music”. She flicked through it, recognizing a few of the titles, and the realization that this was the playlist she’d listened to tonight via Erik’s massive headphones brought a smile to her face.

Another buzz; another text.

_Thank you for running into me tonight, Christine, and for giving me cause to celebrate Thanksgiving this time around. Good night and sleep well - E_

Her last conscious thought, before sleep pulled her under, was that perhaps she’d have someone to bring home to Thanksgiving dinner after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope everyone had a lovely Thanksgiving <3
> 
> Playlist: Stardust, by Mika; Rain, by Mika; Happy Ending, by Mika; King and Lionheart, by Of Monsters and Men; Little Talks, by Of Monsters and Men; Yellow, by Coldplay


End file.
